A Small Life

Arriving at the mall. The human race carrying on its everyday existence. The real world. As I have stubbornly perceived it. Forced to ask the question: Is the world outside my small life, the real world? Is my life negated by its smallness? Its overwhelmingly tedious routine. Quite suddenly, a quiet voice: Your small life is the real world. With all its warts and boils and bunnions. The tedium and routine and frustration. The real world encompasses every life. Be it large or small. Off, now, on somewhat of a tangent, I remember the words I wrote. Barely two years ago:

The degree to which I am physically dependent grows progressively. There is a corresponding increase in the bouts of despair I experience. Yet, as if to defy all sensibility, there is also a corresponding measure of significant personal expansion. Could I have achieved this personal development without the physical parallel? I would like to shout a resounding Yes! to that question but, in truth, I fear the answer may in fact be no. That is particularly hard to acknowledge. It adds insult to injury. It challenges both my deepest longings to be free from physical shackles and the import I attribute to such freedom.